Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Chapter Five
BLAKE
The day of blackmail had arrived. Early that morning, I stood in front of the fogged-over bathroom mirror, questioning whether I had finally reached rock bottom. Surely I had. There would be no other excuse for what I’d just done… used my showerhead to masturbate to the mental image of my hated coworker’s penis hours before I would use said penis to exploit him. Crap. My cheeks were still flushed from the orgasm. If that wasn’t an extremely humiliating record low, I didn’t want to know what was.
“It’s fine,” I said to myself, reaching for my toothbrush and toothpaste. “He’s an asshole with a pretty face.” And an impressive dick. Just because everything about him turned me on didn’t mean I was a hypocrite. I used the toothpaste-covered brush to point at my reflection. “I’m not going to do it again. I will not masturbate to the mental image of anything to do with that man.”
Halfway through my pep talk to myself, the screech of my neighbor serenading her cats bled through my apartment wall. The dog across the hall howled when she hit some god-awful note.
By the time I’d gotten dressed, she’d moved from Mariah Carey to Adele.
“God, please don’t let me end up like her…” I grabbed my purse from the kitchen counter, followed by the blackmail letter Margot and I had put together last night over a bottle of wine. We’d cut out letters from a Women’s Health magazine and used a glue stick to adhere the message to a piece of computer paper. It looked more like a ransom note than anything else. Except, instead of demanding money, the mismatched print spelled out: I know about Paul. Meet me at the Drip Drip Coffee Café at eleven, or else. Margot had insisted on adding the “or else.” I’d thought it was over the top, but then again, blackmailing a penis was over the top. Below the ridiculous, ominous message, we’d glued a picture of Paul in all his pierced glory.
“And this is the day my life takes a wrong turn…” I whispered, folding the paper and shoving it inside my purse before I left my apartment.
The subway was eerily empty at six a.m., as was most of Broadway. A few joggers here and there. People sleeping on the street, but not a businessman in sight.
Margot met me outside the revolving doors of our office building. “I brought this in case we need to distract someone.” She opened her massive purse, tilting it so I could see inside. “It’s a replica of Johnny Depth’s dick.” Her favorite porn star…
“You can’t be serious?” I stared down at the glittery-purple silicone dildo. “How in the hell is that supposed to distract someone? I swear to God, Margot, if you tell me your plan is to throw it at someone or smack them in the face—”
“Please. All I have to do is drop it on the floor and do this…” A buzzing came from inside her purse. The tip of the dildo swirled around. “It has a remote.”
Shaking my head, I passed through the revolving doors and into the pristine lobby. “Your plan to distract someone is to throw a gyrating dildo on the floor?”
“Would it distract you?”
“It would, but so would someone pulling the fire alarm.”
We took the elevator to the thirty-seventh floor. All the while, Margot tried to convince me a sex toy was a better distraction than pulling a fire alarm.
“No one even bats an eye when the alarm goes off, Blake. It’s a lame idea.” And hers was hair-brained at best.
“Let’s just hope you and I are never in a life-or-death situation because we will one hundred percent die,” I said just as the elevator doors opened to the dark floor.
Without the tap tap tap of keys and the hum of the printer, it felt oddly quiet.
Retrieving the note from my purse, I turned the cubicle corner and stopped behind Vance’s chair, Margot right beside me. Of course, he would have an ergonomic support pillow. A framed photo sat beside his office phone; a picture of a white-haired lady in a daisy-print dress holding a cowboy-hat-wearing dachshund.
Guilt sprouted in my gut. Ugh, he was a person, wasn’t he? With feelings and a grandma and the whole gauntlet? He may have been an asshole—no. Not may have been. He was an asshole, but my trying to blackmail him didn’t make me a better person. It arguably made me worse.
“I can’t,” I said, dropping the blackmail letter to my side in defeat.
“Sure you can. It’s Vance.”
I thumbed at the picture frame. “He has a photo of a grandma and a dog in a cowboy hat.”
“And? It’s probably one of those stock photos that come in the frame and he’s just using it to make people think he’s not a soulless asswad. I mean, come on, Blake.” Margot waved her hand over his desk like a magician revealing a crappy magic trick. “The guy called you easy. And more important than a grandma and a wiener dog is the fact that this mofo stole—stole—your dream vacation slash assignment slash chance at banging a French man. He’s like the thief of joy. Thieves of joy deserve blackmail, Blake. You know this.”